Fierce Fire
by XmagicalX
Summary: Even the greatest warriors have weaknesses - Goku can't win this one on his own, but can even Vegeta save him now? [UPDATED: Ch.7!]
1. A Single Spark

I began this some time ago, but only recently decided I might like to write it after all. If there's any interest I'll see about pursuing it... 

This follows the short story "One Fine Day"; all you really need to know is that it's three years after Buu; and the dragonballs were used recently for one wish, so are out of commission for the next few months. 

**Fierce Fire**  


"Fierce fire reveals true gold."  
--Chinese proverb 

In the middle of her analysis, Bulma found her thoughts wandering toward the matter of Gohan's wedding, as they had had a tendency of doing ever since she had heard the news two weeks before. While she was not related to the Son family by blood, Goku was one of her oldest and dearest friends, and she had always considered Gohan to be a nephew of sorts. That little Gohan-kun was grown up, was going to be married, even, frankly amazed her. Time truly did fly. At this rate Trunks would be graduating college tomorrow... 

She shook her head, attempted to concentrate on her computer. The scanner was running diligently without her attention, feeding a endless stream of numbers across her monitor. The day before Son-kun had appeared with the object currently under investigation. He had found it on one of his frequent jaunts in the wilderness, in a small crater, so he had reported. Recognizing it to be unknown technology--understanding, of course, that Goku's knowledge of technology did not extend much further than coffee-makers--he had brought it to Bulma, assuming she would be able to get more out of it. 

So far she hadn't had much success. Judging by the pocked and heat-scarred hull, and the crater, it was extraterrestrial. A small, metal ovoid approximately the size of a football, jammed full of nonsensical gadgets and tiny empty compartments, she guessed it was a probe of some kind, but for what and from where she couldn't say. There was a type of transmitter among its innards, but it seemed to be inactive. Microscopic inspection had yielded a couple of tiny nanite robots inside, possibly for maintenance, also inactive. Currently she was running it through the gamut of electromagnetic spectrographs in hopes of revealing more about its structure and hopefully its purpose. 

Not that it was that important, most likely, but it was something to do. Bulma would be the last person to say things were boring; she hadn't any desire to see the world, her friends, or her family in jeopardy ever again. But she hadn't come up with any new inventions for a couple months, Capsule Corporation had just started a new fiscal year and was taking it slow, and everyone hadn't been available for a big party in a while. 

The wedding was a welcome event; everyone would be there. Tienshinhan and Chaozu might even come down from whatever mountaintop they were training upon to see Gohan take his vows. She wondered if Piccolo might actually dress for the occasion, and stifled a snicker at the thought of the Namek in a tux. Maybe with a green bowtie. 

Hmm, and would she be able to convince Vegeta to don something appropriate? The prince looked positively stunning in a suit...the one and a half times she had managed to get him into one... 

The door of the lab slid open and, with perfect timing, the man himself strode in. Bulma smiled brightly at her husband. "I was just thinking of you!" 

He glared back at her, suspicious. "Really." 

"Oh, don't be that way." She swatted him on the shoulder, not lightly. Lightly and he wouldn't feel it. Actually he wouldn't feel a punch in the jaw from her, but at least she tried. "Would you rather I was thinking of Son-kun?" 

Mentioning the only other member of his species was a sure-fire way to make Vegeta bristle. Bulma never tired of the reaction. Before he could explode--and more than figuratively--she said, "Never mind about that. I want you to take a look at this. Son-kun brought it to me yesterday. It's from outer space. Ever seen anything like it?" 

Vegeta followed her gesture to the probe. His eyes widened. 

Literally flying forward, he kicked the device into the air like the football it resembled. Before it could hit the wall, he raised his hands, palms out, and shouted, "Final Flash!" 

A burst of energy shot from his hands, engulfing the probe and obliterating it entirely, along with a good portion of the wall behind it. Bulma blinked away afterimages from the brilliant blast, and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the orange-tinged sunlight now streaming in from a formerly solid wall. "What the hell? You want to explain?" 

Vegeta turned on her. In spite of herself, Bulma almost retreated a step under the intensity of his stare. "You said Kakarotto brought you that thing?" he demanded. 

Bulma nodded. "He found it yesterday, out training in the woods somewhere--Vegeta, what the hell is it? Was it, I mean? Why--" 

Vegeta was ignoring her. He clenched his teeth as he stood in place, fists closed and mind working furiously behind his lowered brows. "Did he bring it to his house?" he asked finally. "Did anyone else touch it before he brought it to you?" 

"No--I don't know--he didn't say. Vegeta, I'm waiting for an explanation here." 

"Call him. Find out," her husband ordered imperiously, not paying her the slightest heed. 

"Like hell. Not until you spill it." 

"Dammit, Bulma, there's no time!" 

Bulma's eyes widened. Her name. He must be serious. Without further protest she reached for the lab phone and dialed the Son house, got an answer after five rings. "Hello--" 

She didn't get any further. "Bulma-san!" Chichi wailed. "Do you know what happened to him? How could this happen?" 

"Chichi?" Bulma was accustomed to Goku's wife's bouts of hysteria, but there was a note in her voice now that she hadn't heard before, a true fear different from her furious panic attacks. "What's this, what happened? Is Son-kun there?" 

Vegeta's head was cocked, listening intently to as much of the conversation as he could make out. 

At her husband's name, Chichi sobbed incoherently. Bulma tried without success to calm her, until at last a new voice came over the line. "Bulma-san?" 

"Goten-kun," Bulma replied with relief. "Can you tell me what's the matter?" 

"It's...it's Otousan. He...he left. Before dinner was done. He flew away." There was a brief pause, then, "He broke the roof. And the table. 'Kaasan's really upset." 

Bulma had noted as much already. She was starting to grasp the reasons. Goku leaving a meal unfinished...and breaking things. If he'd done so on purpose, that definitely was abnormal behavior. "Do you know where your otousan is now, Goten-kun?" 

"No. He's not around here. I can't sense him." 

He was frightened, too, Bulma heard in his voice. A kid who had faced down one of the original monsters of the universe with pure enthusiasm, but Goten was still a kid, all the same. Whatever Goku had done had scared his son. And that was even more out of character for Son-kun. "Goten, is your brother there?" 

"He's with Videl. On a date." It was a measure of how upset Goten was that he didn't get so much as a disdainful tone at the mention of his brother's tryst. 

"All right. If you can, contact him, tell him what's wrong. I'm going to come over and see what I can do." 

She hung up, and looked up from the phone to find Vegeta watching her. "Be careful," he said. 

"Oh, no, you're coming with me. If something's happened to Son-kun, we might need you." 

"No." The refusal was flat, but his eyes on her were fiercely dark and full of import. "Be careful," he repeated, and cupped her cheek for an instant with one gloved hand. Just as swiftly he pulled away and threw back his head, rising into the air. 

"Wait--" she began, but he shot through the hole in the domed wall and vanished into the twilit sky. 

Bulma sighed. "Where are you going?" she asked the empty room. With a final look at the console where the now-obliterated probe had rested not half an hour before, she stuck her hands in her pockets in search of the capsule with her aircar. 

* * *

High overhead, he hovered, watching, his ki lowered below the limits of perception, his body hidden within the cool, pale wisps of a cloud. In the bright moonlight he observed a silhouette slipping over the world, an arrow rushing in straight flight just over the treetops, swooping over the mountains, intent on its destination. It flamed with unconcealed power, too focused to slow down or control its strength. Desperation in that flight. Fear. Concern. 

Familiarity in the aura. Kinship. _Gohan_. 

_Son. Mine._

A part of him wanted to fly down, join his flight, greet him. 

Another part knew he should not, could not afford it. Danger. Too dangerous to try. 

_Attack_. Preemptive strike, before he himself was attacked-- 

But he would not--they had fought. The memory pulsed through his limbs, strike him, struck in return, rhythm of combat, duel until one faltered, one fell-- 

Not duel, a spar--a game, not real. Was anything real? He couldn't tell. The world wavered like a heat mirage over a tar road. He could feel the stars burning overhead, small suns, fires casting off embers, stinging his skin. He beat at them, tiny prickles, bites of invisible insects. Sweat beaded on his forehead. 

Control lost, he tumbled from the cloud. Gohan was gone over the horizon, air rippling in the wake of his speed. He caught himself on the wind and tried to think, staring over the dark mountains. 

That way lay home. Follow him. Safety, love--danger. His danger, the danger in him. What was wrong with him? 

Thoughts flitted, moth-like, alighting here and there and then gone once more. He could reach out and catch the world between his fingers, it was that small, but when he tried it towered over him, reached down to pluck him up instead. 

He was spinning as he fell again, or maybe the land below was turning. Around and around, as Bulma had tried once to explain to him, why the sun set, because it was on one side and then the other. He hadn't really understood until he had gone up in space and seen the globe for what it was, a ball rolling half in sun and half in shadow, wrapped by a blanket of stars. The stars were at his feet now, and he was diving up, toward the peak of the black mountain hanging down from the ceiling of the earth. Like a stalactite, and the cavern was the land and sky, and the land called to him, pulled him to its bosom, mound of stone and tree. 

He was close enough to see the grain of the mountain, ripples of dirt and pebbles like some fantastic thick pudding, and then he was stopped. Hands grabbing him from behind jerked him to a halt, his head only a few feet from the sharp-edged rock. He was roughly twisted over, until the sky was overhead and the ground at his feet. 

He fought, furious but without direction, only flailing his limbs against the powerful grip until he broke free and whirled toward his assailant. 

Who was no longer behind him. A rustle above alerted him. As a figure dropped with preternatural speed, he dodged to the side, then shot forward, his fist clipping his attacker across the jaw before he could block. 

"_K'so_!" the shadowed one snarled, and he should have known that voice--but there was no ki to match, or almost none, power forced so low he seemed a hole, a blank space in the pattern of life. 

He charged again, but this time his enemy swerved out of his path, spinning to kick him in the small of his back as he passed. Thrown down by the blow, it took him an instant to twist around, and then the dark attacker was upon him, locking his arms behind him. 

"Stop fighting me, Kakarotto!" the familiar stranger commanded, and such was the force in his voice that he automatically obeyed, freezing. 

The hold relaxed, ever so slightly, and before it could tighten again he bucked and threw his enemy off, followed with a wild punch that scored. The stranger flew back, then halted in midair, bruised jaw set in rage. "I should've let you break your damn-fool head," he growled, "saved me the trouble." 

So saying, the man rocketed forward, and he soared forth to meet him. The fight boiled in his blood, the need, the liberation of battle clearing away the smoke and shadows in his mind. With his opponent to focus upon he could clarify himself, ignoring the world's confusion while he concentrated on the fight. The fire raged, hotter now, but internal, no longer blistering his skin but quickening his blood. He punched, kicked, the tempo of the impacts restoring some order. With every blow that smashed through his enemy's defenses, he heard a grunt of suppressed pain, and grinned. 

"Too strong," he heard the other gasp, "too fast, _chikusho_, there's no choice--!" 

Then the shadows were gone as the man's ki flamed, light like the sun's flooding the night. Crested hair became yellow fire, eyes blue coals. The attacks, already too quick to see, became too fast to perceive at all, and he was pummeled back, unable to counter, unable to even move, his arms crossed over his head in a vain shield against the assault. 

He could not lose, not to him, not to any, could not lose ever, a mantra in his blood, his bones, deeper than any conscious thought. Enraged, he retaliated instinctively. His own ki shot up to match his attacker's power, transmuting iron to gold. 

Then he screamed, and blacked out. 

* * *

The agony faded slowly, waves of molten magma washing his nerves, slowly retreating. Air blew cool against his face, his arms. He opened his eyes to find himself flying, barren gray landscape passing beneath him, hanging in another's firm grasp. 

But he sensed no ki, or almost none, that same strained concealment. He twisted up to see who supported him, felt the grip tighten painfully. No golden glow, hair and eyes black again. He should know that face glaring down at him. 

Memories slipped, cartwheeled, leaves caught in a rapid brook. The earth below them was pocked like a rotted fruit, eaten away by maggots. He couldn't touch it, though it looked so close. He tensed to fight, to free himself from that fierce hold, to free his mind from the confusion bending all thought. 

"Don't." 

He hesitated, remembering torture...but he must fight, put the pain aside as the battle demanded. 

"Don't fight now. Listen to me, Kakarotto. Even you cannot fight this. I will battle for you. Trust me." 

Abandon a fight for another in his stead...rarely could he do so; there were so very few he could accept in his place, and know the fight would still be won. They were always so important, his fights, not the spars but the true battles. So much determined by success, so very much to protect. 

Exhaustion dragged at him, carried on the pain still flooding him, diminished but yet powerful. In sleep there would be no pain, no fighting, no dreams...that didn't make sense. But he was awake, eyes open, and the land passing beneath him was a dreamscape, empty but mutable, changing color with the sky. If he dreamed when awake, perhaps in sleep he would have none. 

He could break free, fight back; there was enough strength in him yet for that. But there was no need, not anymore. Not when he finally realized who held him, carried him with such brutal, determined strength. 

Battle entrusted to another, he slept. 

* * *

Shall I continue? 


	2. Smoke in the Air

The neat dome of the Son house was fractured up and down, cracks spiderwebbing out from a three-foot hole in the rooftop. Inside the house, all was intact, save the oak table reduced to splinters and shards of broken china littering the floor. By the time Bulma arrived, several minutes after Gohan had returned home, Chichi was on her feet, diligently sweeping. Bulma silently fetched a dustpan to assist her, deciding questions could wait until the house, and Chichi's spirit, were back in some semblance of order. 

Bulma's son, who had appeared when she was about to leave and assisted on accompanying her, was not so delicate. "Oi, Goten! What happened?" 

Goten flew out of his brother's arms and to his friend, knocking Trunks back several feet and further denting the abused wall. "Trunks-kun, Tousan--Tousan got mad, we were just eating but he wasn't eating much, and Kaachan asked him why he wasn't, and Tousan yelled at her and hit the table and left!" 

"That's what happened," Chichi said, her voice shaky. Gohan solicitously took his mother's arm and sat her in a kitchen chair. "He only ate three bowls of rice," she sniffed, "not my Goku-san's appetite at all, but he didn't look sick--" 

"Goten," Gohan asked quietly, "how did Otousan's ki feel? Was there anything strange about it?" 

"I don't know, Niichan. But it was him. I know Tousan!" 

"Baka!" Trunks cuffed his friend. "He knows you know that. He wants to know if there was something wrong with it, like Goku-san was sick or something." 

Goten thought hard. "I don't know," he said finally. "Maybe...when he got mad, it was a little weird. It went really high, but he didn't go Super Saiyajin. And it was hot, like when he's fighting a big battle." 

"That could be the kaiou-ken," Gohan said. "But why would he..." 

"Maybe Son-kun sensed something dangerous, and went to fight it," Bulma suggested. 

"Something we didn't sense?" Gohan frowned. "But why not tell you? And why didn't he just teleport to it?" 

"Well, where did he go?" Bulma asked reasonably. 

Gohan closed his eyes. Opened them again immediately, and said, in a voice too calm, "Goten, can you feel Otousan's ki? Can you, Trunks?" 

Trunks lowered his brow in concentration, then shook his head. Goten screwed up his face with effort, then cried, "No!" 

"What about Vegeta's?" Bulma asked. At Gohan's inquiring look, she said, "He took off a couple minutes before I did. I don't know where he was going, but I think it had something to do with Son-kun--" 

"I don't sense Papa!" Trunks interrupted. "He's gone!" 

Bulma looked at Chichi, and saw sympathy reflected in Goku's wife's dark eyes. She forced herself to stay collected. "You don't think--" 

"Not that. We'd know," Gohan said, not letting her finish before his brother and her son. He touched his mother's shoulder comfortingly. "They could be hiding their ki for some reason. Goten, Trunks, why don't you go with Bulma-san to Kamesennin's place. Otousan and Vegeta-san might be there, and Kuririn will want to know what's happened. I'm going to find Piccolo-san; he might know if something's wrong. Kaasan--" He looked to his mother with concern. 

Chichi stood and stared up at her son, planting her hands on her hips. "I'm not going to just stay here. Not with your father missing." She cast a glance at the ceiling. "Besides, the roof will need repairs before anyone can sleep here. I'll go with Goten and Bulma." 

"We'll find them," Bulma assured her and the kids. Never mind that she had no proof. Someone had to say a wish aloud in order for it to be granted. 

Wishes. The dragonballs were out of commission for another couple months. 

She hoped like hell that they wouldn't be needed. And knew it for a slim chance indeed. 

* * *

Piccolo meditated alone. Sometimes even the few, quiet denizens of Kami's Lookout were too much a disturbance to his focus. At such times he went to the mountains, the wildernesses so far from any kind of civilization that no sentience encroached on the wide circle of his perception. He went there for peace, usually, seeking solitude to wrestle with the demons and angels of his nature. Alone, he could establish a kind of truce between his conflicting parts, the legacy of the divisions and fusions of his past. 

This expedition was not for his well-being, however. Something was brewing. Not here, not immediately. But Dende had been going around with a worrying look in his eyes for the past week--green around the gills, one would say if he weren't already a Namek. Almost ill; definitely ill at ease. Gods didn't get sick, as a rule, but they could be disturbed. Especially if they knew, or at least had an inkling, of something bad on the horizon. 

It had been three years since Buu. Piccolo knew the quiet was too good to last. Alone in the mountains, he focused his concentration, tried to comprehend what event was due. Close, he knew. Close in time, but not in distance...great distance, the immense reaches separating the stars, and the vast universe was as always full of monsters... 

His investigation was interrupted by a call, much nearer, a mental request from the only individual he could never refuse. Especially not in these circumstances. Gohan's ki, far away as it was, was clearly upset. 

So it had begun. Piccolo rose into the night sky and went to meet the boy, wondering if he was more worried by what was to come, or relieved that the wait was over. 

* * *

It was still late afternoon at Kame House, though Kuririn was hoping against all knowledge of natural law that the sun would set early today. Once darkness fell, he would have the perfect excuse of all parents getting out of their children's demands--that it was time for bed. Unfortunately Marron was not going to be put off by anything less. 

"Why not, Papa?" she demanded, her fists on her hips and pouting as only a seven-year-old can. "Goten and Trunks both knew how to fly when they were my age. I want to learn!" 

"Yes, but..." Kuririn searched his mind for excuses. Pointing out they were boys would only make her more insistent, and as for the demi-alien issue, Marron still wanted to learn how to go Super Saiyajin, not quite believing her father couldn't do so if he really tried. It was flattering, and he loved being a hero in his little girl's eyes, but she was not appreciative of the differences between her and her friends. "Goten and Trunks taught themselves," he told her. 

"Nuh-uh!" Marron was quick to contradict. "Goten's oniisan taught him! So you can teach me." 

Kuririn grimaced. The trouble was not simply that he didn't want his daughter involved in the whole fighting game if he could help it. Things were quiet now, but he had enough experience not to assume that wouldn't change, and he would rather Marron weren't in the thick of things should the proverbial shit hit the fan. On the other hand, if she made up her mind to follow in her parents' footsteps and become a warrior, he knew there was nothing he could do about it. And in truth, he found it impossible to deny any desire of either of the females in his life. 

No, the real problem here was, simply, that he didn't have any idea how to teach someone to fly. He remembered it had taken him several months of effort, and a couple years before he had perfected the technique. It wasn't something a little kid could pick up with ease. But there must be a better way, considering how easily Goten and Trunks had learned--or better yet Videl, who had taken only a week or two to master the basics. If Mr. Satan's daughter could do it, certainly his daughter could. Maybe he should ask Gohan how he had taught Videl. 

Strange how things hard in their youth came so effortlessly to today's kids. Must be something in the water. Or more likely the answer was Son Goku, pushing everyone to their limits and beyond, raising the standards for the world. When he and Goku had first started training under Master Roshi, Mr. Satan would have been a worthy opponent for them, amusing as that sounded now. They were damned lucky no one like Cell or Buu had appeared then...and they were lucky they had Saiyajin on the planet, because strong as Kuririn was, if saving the world were up to him Buu would have destroyed the universe by now. If Frieza and Vegeta hadn't gotten to it first. 

But Marron wanted to be part of that next generation of warriors, and Kuririn wasn't about to tell her she could never compete with the Saiyajin. You never know; maybe she would be the first human being to go Super Ningen. Fathers always wished for greater things for their children. And she already had the blonde hair... 

"Juuhachigou," Kuririn asked, "can you teach her to fly?" 

His wife was sunbathing, or at least lying on the beach in a bathing suit. Her pearly skin would never burn or tan, but she enjoyed the warmth, or maybe she liked pretending to be a normal women. To further this effect she was perusing a fashion magazine, and trying not to snicker too loudly. At Kuririn's question she raised her sunglasses and cast slanted blue eyes in her family's direction. "Sorry," she said. "I don't use ki to fly. You'll have to show her." She flipped the page of her magazine, then looked up again. "What's that?" 

Kuririn followed her gesture and spied a tiny dot shining on the horizon. 

"It's Goten and Trunks!" Marron cried excitedly, jumping up into the air as if to see higher. 

"And Bulma and Chichi," Kuririn added, recognizing the other two ki in the approaching aircar. "Isn't it late for them to be visiting?" 

"It's already past ten in their longitude," Juuhachigou confirmed, suddenly standing at his side. 

"Something must have happened," Kuririn said, worried. "I'm going to get Master Roshi and Oolong." 

"Fine," said Juuhachigou. It was a measure of her distraction that she made nary a disparaging comment about either man or pig as her husband flew into the house. Her enhanced eyes focusing on the approaching silver dot, she took Marron's shoulders and drew her daughter closer. 

* * *

Big thanks to Jen-chan and VGL for leaving such nice reviews! I'm trying to keep in character and still tell the story I want to read...wish me luck! Hope you enjoyed this part...is there anyone else reading? 


	3. Caught Tinder

Gohan was soaring several hundred meters above an ice floe when the communicator on his wrist squealed. A couple of the penguins below craned their necks up at him while he halted mid-air to answer. "Yes?" 

"Gohan!" Videl's voice was sharp. "Where have you been? I've been trying to raise you for the last hour. Some lunatic just tried to assassinate the CEO of Oz Electronics." 

"What? Is she okay? Are you okay?" 

"She's fine, I'm fine--like I said, he was a nut. His weapon was a bucket of water...something about melting witches...anyway, it wouldn't have been a problem except the soap suds shorted out the new travel computer they were just bringing online, so West City is now one giant traffic jam--where have you been? I kept getting a no signal error!" 

"Er...I guess satellite coverage isn't complete over Antarctica." 

"_Antarctica_? Why the heck are you--" 

"Videl, can the Great Saiyaman 2 handle things on her own for the next few days? Something's come up." 

There was a pause, and Gohan flinched, anticipating his fiancée's outrage. But Videl's reply was soft. "Gohan-kun, what's wrong?" 

"It's my dad." Gohan explained quickly, ending with, "So now everybody's searching for him. And Vegeta-san." 

"He's been gone since the night before last? Why didn't you tell me before? You didn't say why Goten had called." 

"I'm sorry," Gohan said hastily. "I had to find Piccolo-san to tell him what's going on, and then I went back to see if Okaasan and Bulma-san had learned anything, and then I thought I felt Otousan but when I flew to where I thought he was there wasn't anything, and then--" 

"Gohan-kun," Videl said, patiently, "when did you _sleep_?" 

"I, um." Gohan thought for a moment. "I didn't." 

"Since two nights ago? Do you know how late it is?" 

"Well, it's still daytime here. And Saiyajin don't need regular sleep--Videl, no one can sense either of them. And Piccolo-san is pretty sure they didn't leave the planet, either by space or...going to another dimension. Unless Otousan teleported, but I don't think Vegeta-san would go with him, usually. Except Bulma-san said that Vegeta-san was upset about something..." 

"Gohan-kun. Gohan-kun! Slow down. Look, your dad is strong. And so is Vegeta-san. I don't think there's anything on Earth that could stand up to them, and besides, you'd feel something that powerful. So if no one can sense them, maybe they're hiding their ki for some reason?" 

"Yes, that's what I thought," Gohan agreed. "But why? Otousan likes to go into the wilderness sometimes, but he's never tried to hide from me before. And Vegeta-san--" 

"Wouldn't care. Gohan, what aren't you telling me?" 

"Eh?" 

"You're panicking. It's not like you." 

"I...am?" Thinking back, he considered how fast he had been speaking, how rapidly his heart was thudding in his chest. There was sweat on his brow, even in the freezing wind. It did seem quite a bit like panic. He had seen it before--Videl's father exhibited it a good deal of the time. But it wasn't something he could recall experiencing personally. Saiyajin tended to be happy, proud, or angry, to the exclusion of most other emotions. Fear he had felt before, if rarely. This was similar, but different. 

Piccolo-san had noticed, too, he realized, thinking of the Namek's parting words to him the previous night. "Keep cool." At the time he had thought it a suggestion to search the ice caps... 

"I guess it's...we don't know anything. There's nothing to fight. Videl, I don't want to lose Otousan again." 

"You'll find him." Videl's tone was all supreme confidence, inherited from her famous father. "You can do it." 

It warmed him, in a way that had nothing to do with the ice below. "Videl, if you do need me, just call." 

"_Hai_. And if you need me--you call, promise?" 

"Promise," Gohan assented, and closed the connection. Buoyed by her certainty, he took off in the direction of the Capsule Corporation. Perhaps Bulma had figured something out by now. 

* * *

Piccolo was no longer Kamisama, but after several centuries as Chikyuu's deity, he had connections. He heard things during the time he spent on Kami's Lookout; Dende would talk, and Mr. Popo dropped occasional tidbits. Moreover, he still had links with the earth itself. His was not the most powerful ki on the planet, but he was arguably the most sensitive to the undercurrents of life and energy. Therefore it is unsurprising that of all the worldwide searches, Piccolo was the one who found them. 

In all honesty, it took a fair amount of luck as well, being in the right place at the right moment. Then again, since he was on an errand for Dende at the time, it might not have been luck at all. Fate--and deities--leave little up to chance. 

At any rate, Piccolo was flying over a second largest desert in the world when he felt a ki flare up--a violent conflagration, almost explosive in both its sudden rise and its immediate disappearance. It was barely long enough for him to pinpoint its direction, but there was no mistaking that pattern of energy, nor its sheer power. Goku. 

The Namek considered alerting Gohan, decided against it. Useless to get the boy's hopes up if it had been a momentary lapse of his perceptions...which he knew it wasn't. But there had been an element to that ki-flash that he didn't care for. Something different, something unusual, which he wanted to investigate before he let the others know. Just in case... 

They might be in even worse trouble than they had thought, if his reading was accurate. Because the ki he had sensed, Goku's ki, while unseemingly powerful as ever, was also undeniably, unmistakably, completely insane. 

* * *

Bulma wondered where Vegeta was. 

She knew she shouldn't be worried. The Saiyajin no ouji was eminently self-sufficient, perfectly able of taking care of himself, if no one else. And Son-kun, on the other hand...Goku should be her concern now. 

Still, she couldn't stop wondering. 

"Have you found anything yet, Bulma-san?" 

Besides, Goku had enough people worrying for him. She met Gohan's anxious dark eyes and shook her head regretfully. "I haven't figured out where that probe came down, even. You sure you don't know, Gohan-kun?" 

He shook his head. "Otousan didn't--" Mid-sentence he stopped, looking upward with a questioning 'hn?' 

Before Bulma could ask what he had sensed, the skylight burst in with a shower of glass. She threw up her arms to shield her eyes, imagining what kind of threat Gohan would have taken so long to notice. When cautiously she lowered her arms, she saw... 

Her son, who was apparently picking up his father's flair for making an entrance. Goten was in his arms. "Trunks--" she began, taking a step forward. 

"I didn't do it!" Trunks wailed, sounding half his age and not a little hysterical. "We were flying, looking for Papa and Goten's tousan, and then I didn't do anything, and he fell--" 

Gohan knelt by Trunks and took his brother, shook him gently. "Goten? Goten? It's niichan. Goten?" The boy's black-haired head lolled back and Gohan cradled it in one hand, looking to Bulma with a worry that made him look the child he had been, not the young man he was now. 

Bulma put her hand to Goten's forehead and frowned. "He's burning up, even for you guys. We should put him to bed, bring him here." She put her arm around her son's shoulders and squeezed, then lead them to the medical bay of the Capsule Co. offices. Trunks watched apprehensively as Gohan laid his brother on one of the beds and drew up the covers. Bulma watched as well, brow furrowing deeper when Goten didn't move. Then she hurried to call a doctor, hoping as she dialed that one could do any good with Saiyajin physiology. Maybe it was just the flu; he was half-human, after all. 

_Dammit, Son-kun, dammit, Vegeta_, she thought as she argued with the hospital's receptionist, _you guys better be as indestructible as you act like you are..._

* * *

Next chapter - what *did* happen to Goku and Vegeta? 

Hope this part was a bit more exciting. I'm a follower of old-school style drama - "Start small, and build." I do know where I'm going with this, but I admit I enjoy character interaction more than fistfights between all-powerful villains and world saviors. Maybe I shouldn't be writing DBZ... ^^;; Thanks for your comments, Debido, as well as molly jean, Dreamwraith, and Vegito044. 


	4. Warning Signs

Vegeta returned from his hunt feeling far less than his typical formidable self. Red blood in his mouth, the vigor of hot flesh--usually a hunt satiated more than simple hunger for food. But nothing had motivated him now save necessity. Even a Saiyajin couldn't fast indefinitely, and under these circumstances he needed all the ordinary, physical strength he could get. At least holding his ki below perceptible limits was becoming less of a strain as time wore on--because he had less to hide. 

He brought one haunch of the goat back to the cave, thinking once mashed to a pulp he might force it into Kakarotto's mouth, and perhaps he could manage the rest himself... 

Kakarotto was gone. He had left the other Saiyajin in an unconscious heap in the far corner of the cave, assuming he would stay put for an hour; after all, Vegeta had been none too gentle putting him to rest. It wasn't as if another cracked skull would do the idiot that much damage, especially compared to what he could do to himself awake. 

But there was no sign of him now. 

Dodging outside, Vegeta took to the air, visually scanning the barren wasteland for any motion as he extended his inner sense. No obvious places to hide, save among the stone and shadow; that was why he had brought Kakarotto here, where there was nothing to destroy. Here and there were the scarce, weak ki of desert creatures, hiding from the heat of the noon sun, but none of the subtly alien aspect, or blinding power, that marked a warrior born on another world. 

Saiyajin for the most part resemble humans, but their physiology is adapted for fighting in a way unmatched by any Earth species. Their eyes are slightly larger than humans', and the connection of their optic nerve narrower, so their blind spots are smaller. Nevertheless, they still have them. 

And Goku should not have been able to produce a ki blast in his condition, but then, Goku always had excelled at the impossible. It was no where near as controlled or focused as a Kamehameha, but it was still damaging. 

Vegeta felt the spike of power like a stinging whip, burning across his nerves with unnatural violence. He spun, but too slowly. The blast caught him across shoulder, slammed him head-first into an outcropping. Dazed, he slid down the sheer rock, smashing into the bedrock beneath the cliff. Gravel rained down on him, and he struggled to find purchase in the shifting stone. Hearing a whoosh of displaced air, the prince forced up his head-- 

To see Kakarotto hovering before him, fist drawn back, about to land the final blow. Vegeta couldn't move, had only the time to realize the son of a bitch was going to do it. Carry out what he should have ended fifteen years past. Delirious, Kakarotto was more Saiyajin than when sane. 

And he was rushing forward, wind screaming with the violating speed, and what an irony that he was the one to finish it, as, fatalistically, Vegeta had always known it would be-- 

A green and white blur slammed into Kakarotto, crashing him through a ridge of stone. The Saiyajin, his last energies spent, dropped senseless. Piccolo fished him out of the rubble, then carried his limp form over to where Vegeta was trying to stand, with limited success. 

"Looks like my timing was perfect," the Namek said wryly. "Now tell me I picked the right man to take down." 

Vegeta glared at him with all the indignation of a Saiyajin prince whose life had just been saved, then lost the wrath as he focused automatically on Kakarotto's ki. "_Kuso_--!" Shoving Piccolo aside, he planted his hands on the other Saiyajin's shoulders and concentrated on raising the last of his own power. If the ungrateful bastard died now, after all this work-- 

Kakarotto shuddered; then his breathing evened and steadied. Vegeta had just enough time to register the settling of his fluctuating ki, and then his own gave out. He crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground. 

Piccolo blinked; then, with a sigh, heaved the two half-dead Saiyajin over his shoulders and carried them back to the cave. 

* * *

"We don't know," had to be one of the least comforting things a doctor could say about a loved one, Bulma reflected, as she watched Chichi cry. Her own eyes felt prickly. Goten looked tiny in the full-sized bed, his black hair in sharp contrast to the white sheets and his pale skin. He looked so much like his father had at that age, right around the time Bulma had met him. And acted so much like him, too, usually, all cheerful energy, for all his love of fighting not a hint of malice in him. To see him lying so still was more than upsetting; it seemed to be denying some fundamental fact. Going against the very nature of the universe, that a Saiyajin could be completely quiet and still be alive. 

The doctor had found no signs of a diagnosable disease, except for Goten's fever and unconsciousness. The fever wasn't dangerously high, and he hadn't suggested much more than the standard cold remedies, plenty of rest and liquids. It wouldn't do any good to explain that Saiyajin normally didn't contract colds, common or otherwise, and therefore this couldn't be a regular bug. She wondered if they should consider quarantine, but Chichi was unlikely to budge from her son's side for any reason, and Trunks... 

Trunks seemed to be trying to make up for his friend; he couldn't sit still--not that he ever could, but now he circled the room, unwilling to stray far from Goten but unequally unable to deal with his unconscious state. Bulma had at least convinced him to keep his feet on the floor when the doctor was present. He also oscillated between silence and rapid questions, fired at Goten, his mother, Chichi, the doctor, and the walls. "Ne, Goten, what's wrong? You too lazy to get up? Why don't you just stick and needle in him and wake him up? How come he's sick? When's he getting better?" 

Bulma soon gave up trying to appease her son. He was a bright boy; he knew no one could answer. He only asked because he didn't know what else to do. If there were anyone to blame Trunks would have beat him bloody by now, but the lack of any clear target was eating at him like acid. 

That came as much from his mother's side as from his Saiyajin heritage. Bulma knew she had to be doing something, or else she would start ripping her hair out at the roots. She wasn't a medical doctor, but she was a problem-solver, and a failing body was like a failing machine: there had to be a cause. Goku's disappearance might be related...and what of the probe? Vegeta had reacted to it, certainly. Could it emit something which affected Saiyajin?...no, not reduced to its component atoms, it couldn't. 

So, something else. Something which lingered, and Vegeta had wanted to know who had had contact with the probe. As if he were worried about contagions. And Goten was sick... 

Bulma felt a stab of fear for her own son. If Vegeta had known what this thing was, then it could be a Saiyajin disease, and if Goten had contracted it then hybrids were vulnerable. But she couldn't think of any way to keep Trunks from his friend. Explaining the situation wouldn't help; he would understand, but wouldn't fear the risk. And there wasn't any way to physically keep them apart; she had yet to construct a barrier which could repel a Super Saiyajin attack. 

Up to her, then, to find a cure before it could hurt her son, or her friends' son...or her friend. Or her husband, if Vegeta had contracted it. 

She put that thought aside, concentrated on the problem at hand. No obvious physical cause, but the doctor had no way of examining the life forces which ran so powerfully in a Saiyajin. But Goten had said he had felt something wrong with Goku's ki, and Gohan had mentioned Goten felt strange, before he had left to find Kuririn and the others. Bulma didn't have their natural senses, but she had her own ways to measure ki levels. 

"Trunks," she said, catching her son's arm, "I need to go to my lab. You stay here and look out for Goten and Chichi, all right?" 

"Got it." Trunks bobbed his head. 

"And Trunks--if you're feeling sick or strange in any way, you have to tell me right away. Okay?" 

"Mama, I feel fine--" 

"It's important, Trunks." 

Trunks sighed. "Okay." 

Bulma gave him a quick hug and a peck on the forehead, then hurried to her lab. She had already taken out the basic ki monitors to help in the hunt for Goku and Vegeta, but what she had in mind needed finer calibration than a simple directional locator. 

It felt good to have something to do, something to focus on. Something to take her mind off the boy in the medical wing, and the missing warriors, and especially the cause of the problem. If it was the probe that had caused this--if it had been sent deliberately to spread an infection...This wasn't a threat they had faced before. And even after all the enemies that had threatened Earth, it still was a chilling thought. 

Biowarfare. 

Whoever these villains were, they weren't just spoiling for a good old-fashioned fight. 

* * *

More to come, soon as I get in gear to write it. 

Big thanks to Dreamwraith (I'd keep writing without reviews - once I start something I like to see it through - but they definitely inspire me!) and Sholio (this is actually your fault - your fantastic stories are what got me back into DBZ! Please continue them!) for letting me know someone's still out there. 


	5. Spreading Flames

Of course the first thing Vegeta growled upon coming to was, "I don't need your help, Namek." 

Piccolo could have written that script all on his own. He forbore to point out that the Saiyajin needed his assistance to stand, instead cut to the heart of the matter. "What did you do to Son?" Then, after more closely inspecting Vegeta, he added, "What did he do to you?" He hadn't seen the prince look this bad since the fight with Cell, bruised and battered, glaring eyes sunken and jumpsuit torn. Moreover his ki was...almost nonexistent. Vegeta had good control, had learned to shield well, but even touching him Piccolo couldn't detect much more than existed in any living being. "The hell have you been up to?" 

"You think I'm here by choice?" Vegeta snarled, then cut himself short. With abnormal calm he continued, "We're both injured." 

"I can see that," Piccolo said. Goku looked worse off than Vegeta, and his ki was even lower. He lay where Piccolo had dropped him, face-down on the cave floor, unmoving; if the Namek hadn't been able to hear his shallow pants he wouldn't have known Son was breathing. "What's wrong with him?" 

"He's ill." 

"I didn't think you guys got sick," the Namek remarked. 

"We're immune to most diseases." 

Piccolo said nothing, simply folded his arms and waited. 

At last Vegeta capitulated. "This isn't a typical virus. It's called the _kaji_. A terrible plague on Vegetasei, centuries ago. It attacks, not just the body, but the life energy of every cell." 

"Ki?" Piccolo would have raised an eyebrow, had he had any. "It infects ki?" 

"Yes." Vegeta leaned against the stone wall of the cave. "Infects ki, and turns it against the host body. It rages, uncontrolled, causing madness and destruction, until finally all energy is burned out. Then, of course, the victim dies." 

_Dies_? Piccolo seated himself, cross-legged, but the prince didn't follow suit, though he clearly could use the rest. "And you and Son have this _kaji_." 

"Not me." Vegeta's tone might have held irritation, or something less interpretable. "I was bred with every immunity our people developed. But Kakarotto would have received no gene or vaccination." 

"Why not?" 

"Because the _kaji_ is an extinct disease. Like the humans' smallpox. It hasn't occurred naturally for over a hundred years." 

"Then how did Son--" 

Vegeta's eyes snapped black sparks in the shadowed cave. "It became a weapon. One of the craven tricks of one of the Saiyajin's most pernicious foes. They're dead--their homeworld was destroyed a few years before Vegetasei." Piccolo didn't need to ask who had done that deed; the satisfaction in the prince's voice as good as trumpeted Saiyajin victory. "But one of their damned probes made it to Earth, and Kakarotto naturally was lucky enough to stumble across it. The idiot goes seeking trouble if it takes too long to find him. I brought him here before he could destroy a country or two in his delirium." 

Piccolo looked to where Goku lay, still as death already. "You said it's fatal." The dragonballs would be no good if he died before they could be used; Son had been resurrected too often for Shenlong to restore him again. "How long..." 

"If the _kaji_ runs its course unchecked, a week at most." 

The Namek's head spun back around to Vegeta, but the Saiyajin was looking outside the cave, not meeting his eyes. "Unchecked?" Piccolo repeated. "What's the cure?" 

"There's no cure," Vegeta said coldly, staring at the shimmering desert sands. "We're warriors, not doctors. The weak who are not cunning enough to avoid it deserve death." 

"Then what have you been doing to Son?" Piccolo rose to his full height, enough to loom over the prince from ten paces away, not that Vegeta had ever cared. 

But the Saiyajin now looked decidedly uncomfortable. "There was a method some low-class fighters used with ill comrades, letting the fever burn itself almost out, then replenishing the lost energy with their own ki. Sometimes it was enough to keep them alive until their bodies fought off the sickness. A royal warrior of course would not lower themselves to such desperate measures...but Kakarotto _would_ lose to a virus, to deny me my victory over him. It's the kind of irresponsible stupidity he'd try to pull." 

So that was why he was out here, drained to a husk for the sake of his arch rival's life. "Hah!" At Piccolo's bark of laughter, Vegeta came close to jumping. His brow furrowed as he tried to imagine the reasons for the humor. Truthfully there wasn't much, but Piccolo couldn't help it. "I don't understand you, Saiyajin," the Namek said dryly. "Son is stronger, faster, tougher than you--" 

Vegeta glared. Piccolo glared back. "As you both are more than me. And yet, you surpass Son in cunning, in strategy, in your knowledge of your people. Hell, I'm given to understand that by most human standards, your mate is a 'catch', while Son was himself caught. But you refuse to accept any victory you might have." 

"They're all worthless," Vegeta spat. "There's only one thing which matters, and Kakarotto defeated me in every battle so far. But eventually I'll triumph." 

"And I'm to leave you alone with Son, knowing that's your only goal." Piccolo nodded significantly toward Goku's unconscious form. "You could end this now. No one would know that you hadn't done everything possible. He'd never beat you again--" 

Vegeta was faster than he expected, even with his diminished ki. Piccolo didn't duck in time; the Saiyajin's fist smashed into his chin and knocked him back. Staggering, he caught himself against the cave wall, blinked at the two Vegetas wavering in his vision. "I am no such coward," both princes hissed as they melded back into a single entity. 

"I don't believe you are. Now." Piccolo grinned, pulling his lips back from his fangs. "And Son knows it--else he would've killed you." 

Vegeta snorted. "He's hardly strong enough to, now." 

"I wasn't referring to now." The Namek cast another look down at Goku. No longer so still, restlessly twitching, fingers unconsciously closing in a loose fist. "He'll be waking soon." 

"He's still burning," Vegeta said. "Get out of here." 

"Are you worried for me, or him?" But Piccolo strode to the cave's mouth. 

Vegeta's voice stopped him before he stepped into the sunlight. "Piccolo. Don't tell anyone of this." 

The Namek turned back. "His family's combing the planet for him. Yours, too." 

"Don't tell any of them where he is," Vegeta repeated. "They don't have the brains to stay away, if they knew he was sick. _Kaji_'s contagious, and I don't know if half-breeds or humans would be immune." 

Piccolo hesitated. "Gohan might understand--he'd be content just to see him..." 

Under the desert sun's glare, Piccolo couldn't make out more than Vegeta's silhouette in the cave, his face lost in shadow. "And if the boy were too slow defending himself from his precious father's attack? Kakarotto wouldn't recover from that, even if his body were fully healed." 

"I won't tell them," Piccolo agreed. Then added, with dark humor, "Be careful, Vegeta. Son wouldn't take your death much better." 

He took off before he heard Vegeta's response. 

* * *

"Bulma?" The lab was dark. Kuririn entered cautiously, reached up and fumbled for the lightswitch by the door. Florescence flooded the tables and various instruments scattered over them. At the far computer console, Bulma jerked up. He thought at first she had fallen asleep, until he saw her surreptitiously brush at her eyes. Pretending he hadn't seen the tears, he asked, "Have you found anything yet?" 

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? Of course I have. I'm a genius, aren't I?" She sighed, irritation gone so fast he knew it had only been assumed. "There's something in Goten's blood. It looks like a virus but it's more advanced, though how I'm not sure. It's pushing the cells' mitochondria into overdrive, but not just accelerating the metabolism, it's actually increasing bioforce production--" She must have noticed Kuririn's eyes glazing over. "Long story short, it's making his ki go all wacky, but I can't tell how. He's unconscious now because it went so high it almost burned itself out. Now it's working on the embers. From what I've seen, it's going to use up the last of his life energy soon. And I don't have a clue how to stop it." 

"You can't." 

At the deep bass Kuririn sprang into the air, fists clenched. Then he caught sight of Piccolo's distinctive white cape and even more distinctive green skin, standing directly behind him. The Namek regarded the human warrior with dour tolerance as Kuririn settled back on the floor with an embarrassed chuckle. It wasn't that his size was imposing--Kuririn was used to people taller than him--but Piccolo always seemed to exude an untouchable disdain for Terran sentience, with few exceptions. And now his green brow was lowered in a grim frown that rendered him all the more forbidding. 

Bulma, being Bulma, wasn't impressed. "What do you mean, I can't?" 

"It's a Saiyajin disease. Deadly. There isn't a cure." 

"And you know this how?" 

"Vegeta told me." 

"Vegeta? Where is he? Is he with Son-kun?" 

"I can't say," Piccolo said flatly. 

For a moment Kuririn thought Bulma was going to smack the Namek, braced himself for whatever disaster would follow. But instead she took a deep breath, released it, and asked patiently, "What can you say?" 

"It's a Saiyajin illness deliberately spread by one of their enemies. This enemy was annihilated by the Saiyajin, before they themselves were destroyed, but a probe survived. Vegeta is immune, but he's doing what he can for Son--" 

"Piccolo-san? You've seen them?" Gohan all but flew into the lab, hope brightening his voice. "I thought I felt you come back--did you find them?" 

Piccolo looked surprisingly uncomfortable. "I--am not at liberty to say." 

"All he can say," Bulma said angrily, "is that there isn't a cure. And it's fatal." 

"Fatal?" Kuririn could see the last blood drain from Gohan's face, leaving him gray. The boy was practically dead on his feet already. Circumnavigating the globe several times hadn't fazed him, not compared to the impact of sitting vigil by his brother's bed. 

"It'll be okay, Gohan." Kuririn patted his back reassuringly as he reminded him, "The dragonballs will be back in a few months." 

"The dragonballs can't help Son," Piccolo said, coldly. 

"Yes, they can help Goten," Kuririn shot back, glaring at the Namek. Then blinked as what he had said registered. "Goku? Goku really has this--" 

"Goten?" Piccolo said simultaneously, "Goten caught--" 

"Who did you think we were talking about?" Bulma snapped. 

"I thought you had seen enough of Son's behavior to deduce..." Piccolo trailed off. 

"So Otousan has it, too," Gohan murmured, all but inaudible. "And it's fatal." 

"Possibly," Piccolo said awkwardly. "But Vegeta is trying...there's a chance, Gohan, you know your father would never give up--" 

"Where are they?" 

Piccolo looked away. "I said I wouldn't--" 

"_Where are they_?" When Gohan's head came up, his eyes were flashing. Kuririn felt his hair stand on end, caught in a current of building energy. Gohan's gi rippled in a nonexistent wind, and Kuririn could feel the anger raging around him, sudden as a summer storm, rocketing toward the threshold of Super Saiyajin. "Where are they, Piccolo?" 

"Gohan," Piccolo began, calmly, but Kuririn saw his eyes widen minutely in distress at causing such anger. 

"_Tell me_!" With a rush of abused energies Gohan broke the barrier. His hair blazed gold as his eyes flared blue. Power crackled over him, setting alarms wailing and sparks flashing between the lab's delicate scientific instruments. 

"Gohan-kun!" Bulma shrieked. "Keep it down--" 

Gohan ignored her, his aqua glare fixed on Piccolo. "Have you known this all along? You've been laughing as we searched?" 

"Gohan, no!" Piccolo protested, and now he didn't even try to conceal his pain at the accusation. "I just found them, but I promised not to take you to them. There's nothing you can do for your father." 

"You'd let him die! You'd let Goten die!" 

"I didn't know Goten--" 

"You're letting them die!" Gohan cried, and then he had launched himself at Piccolo, had smashed him through two lab tables and wrapped his hands around the Namek's throat before Kuririn could move. 

"Gohan, you'll kill him--" Bulma gasped, too shocked even to minister to her squealing equipment. That Gohan would attack anyone unprovoked...but Piccolo? His mentor, the only being he possibly respected more than his own father? Kuririn tried to take Gohan's shoulders, then had to dodge the Saiyajin's insanely fast kick. The human rolled to his feet, panting. Piccolo wasn't even trying to fight back, only stared at his assailant in disbelief as Gohan throttled him. 

"Gohan, what's wrong with you?" Kuririn yelled, keeping his distance while he searched for an opening--no good, Gohan would sense him coming from any direction. "What the hell are you--" 

He caught the incredulous look Bulma aimed at him and realized he was as usual the last one to figure it out. Damn it all, not Gohan, too. 

Piccolo was starting to look more gray than green. But Kuririn was no match for Gohan, even if the Saiyajin wasn't running at even higher ki levels than normal...higher levels. What had Bulma said about Goten's ki burning itself out? 

No time to ask her. Kuririn took a deep breath and hoped he was right. "You're right, Gohan. We knew all along, and now we're going to," he swallowed, "to kill your father and your brother, and then we'll--we'll" 

"Destroy the dragonballs," Bulma broke in, "so you can never get them back--" 

"No!" Gohan dropped Piccolo and spun on them, his eyes incandescent blue. "I won't let you!" His ki, unleashed and impossibly high even for a Saiyajin, rose even further. Blistering energy washed over them and Kuririn flinched, heard Bulma's whimper as even her untrained nerves reacted. Her instruments' shrieking climbed to the supersonic range, glass flasks burst, and it seemed like the air itself was shaking in reaction. Kuririn remembered feeling this once before, on the battlefield with Cell, but that had been years ago, and Gohan had been pushed beyond those limits in the era between, his well of energy dug even deeper--power to destroy the world-- 

Then, suddenly as a popped bubble, the energy broke, crashing over them like a wave, leaving Gohan, black-haired and dark-eyed, swaying in the center of the demolished lab. He blinked, then collapsed. 

Piccolo was there, catching him before he fell onto the shards of glass and metal scattered around him. His eyes fluttered open as the Namek swept him up, cradling him like a child. "Pi--piccolo-san? Wha..." 

"S'alright," the Namek said, roughly, and Kuririn doubted it was from the bruising his throat had taken. "Everything'll be fine." 

"S--sorry," Gohan whispered, and then he was out, head dropping limply to the side. 

Bulma stood shakily, absently brushing debris from her hair. At that moment Trunks burst into the lab, Juuhachigou and Chichi behind him. "What happened?" the boy demanded. "We felt Gohan-san..." 

Juuhachigou looked around, took in the wrecked lab, the panic on her husband's face, the lifeless Saiyajin in Piccolo's arms, and summed up everything succinctly. "Ah, shit." 

* * *

Thanks to Kira for reviewing, and Dreamwraith for sticking with it - yes, go Piccolo! He's my fave after Vegeta...have a devil of a time writing him, tho'. Sorry for the delay in posting. Hopefully the next part will go faster...no promises, though. Should I bother? Is anyone still reading? 


	6. Hot and Cold

Desert nights were as harsh as their days, bitter cold supplanting the burning heat. For a world with such soft, tame inhabitants, the land itself could be surprisingly violent. Under most circumstances Vegeta enjoyed it. Vegetasei had been cruel, but monotonously so, lacking the variety of Chikyuu's icelands and oceans, jutting mountains and dense forests. But sometimes he recalled his homeland, and then he would go to the purity of the deserts, the wastelands so like those which had birthed the Saiyajin. 

He had brought Kakarotto here because it was logical; if the other Saiyajin were coherent, he would agree he would rather destroy rocks than trees or creatures or cities when he lost control. That Vegeta felt more comfortable here on a visceral level did not matter, nor did his passing thought that Kakarotto's buried instincts might also find it soothing factor into the decision. Such weakness had no bearing on a Saiyajin, ill or not. 

Now he had some regret, however. His ki was barely high enough to keep himself warm as was his usual habit. Starting a fire with his hands had proved harder than he would have thought, and he was irritated with how tiring it had been to rotate the stick with enough speed to make heat. Once he had the fire going he was dismayed by how fast it ate through the bramble he had collected. At this rate it wouldn't last half the night. 

And Kakarotto was already shivering, though the night's full cold had yet to descend. Vegeta had dragged him close to the fire; he lay there now curled on his side, trembling despite the sweat soaking his black hair. He looked, Vegeta admitted, alone in this cave, terrible. Not that Kakarotto was ever anything less than a ridiculous sight, with his rangy third-class build and the absurd native garb. Orange had been a jester's colors on Vegetasei. But his clothes now were rags, and his cheeks sunken, muscles shrinking to the bone as the fever razed his flesh. Once he had overcome this disease he would recover quickly, of course... 

Once he overcame it. Not if, because Kakarotto never lost. It wasn't in him. For a good reason he would give his life, but nothing less. A warped version of a Saiyajin's pride to be sure, but Kakarotto had his people's tenacity, that could not be doubted. 

Vegeta stared into the fire, watched it curl around and crush the spiny nettles to glowing ash. "You will not lose to our enemies. If you deny me victory, than you cannot so cheaply grant them such a prize." 

He didn't realize he had spoken aloud until he heard a shallow inhalation, then a raspy voice. "Ve--Vegeta?" 

"Kakarotto? You're awake?" It annoyed Vegeta, how quickly he responded to the weak gasp. Even more when he realized he had unconsciously been speaking in his native tongue. He switched to what Kakarotto could understand. "So you are still alive." 

"Vegeta...have to stop...have to stop them..." 

"Stop who?" Vegeta mustered what ki he could, but felt nothing for kilometers around them more dangerous than a poisonous lizard. 

"They're coming...they'll be here..." Kakarotto's eyes were open, mirroring the golden fire as his head rolled against the stone. "Gotta...they'll...Raditz said more would come..." 

_Raditz_? "Kakarotto, you idiot, we already came. Years ago. You stopped us." 

"Vegeta...protect..." 

Vegeta sighed. "You protected them from me." He had done an altogether too good a job of it, really. Sometimes Vegeta wondered if he would have been better off never coming to this damn planet. Never meeting Kakarotto and his idiotic family and friends...Bulma. Trunks. It was an odd and entirely unpleasant feeling, to imagine never knowing Bulma, to imagine Trunks never existing at all. To have never endured humiliation at Kakarotto's hands... 

Cowardice, to think of avoiding battle. To have never fought Kakarotto...it twisted his gut even to consider it. 

"Vegeta--" The fool was so weak he couldn't kneel without wavering, but he still was pushing himself up, struggling to stand. 

Vegeta shoved Goku down with one hand, dropped him back to the ground and pinned his shoulders. "You rest," the prince growled. "I'll protect them." 

For a moment Kakarotto's wandering gaze fixed on him, seemed to see him for the first time. Vegeta saw recognition there, the only true lucidity since this had begun. He braced himself; if Kakarotto was still lost in the past, he was the enemy... 

"Thank you, Vegeta," Kakarotto sighed, and slipped back into unconsciousness. 

* * *

"Uh oh." 

Kuririn was at Bulma's side in an instant. "What do you mean, uh-oh?" 

If she had been under any less stress she might have given him an itemized list. Now she only sighed, rubbing her temples. Migraine didn't begun to cover the magnitude of her current headache. Apocalyptic was closer to the mark. "I've been going over all the data I collected about the probe, before Vegeta destroyed it. To see if there were any clues in it about this disease." 

Kuririn nodded impatiently. Across the room, Juuhachigou had paused in her sweeping to listen. It had been atypically generous of her to volunteer herself and her husband to pick up the wreckage of the laboratory; Bulma supposed she had done it to avoid being pressed into nursing duty. Her bedside manner was more suited to cleaning, although there was something terribly incongruous about the android wielding a broom. 

At least she hadn't fled the scene entirely. Piccolo had vanished the moment he had seen Gohan settled in the bed by his brother's. Bulma sighed again. "Didn't Piccolo say that whoever it was that sent the probe were killed off by the Saiyajin? And the probe has just been floating around the universe for the last few decades?" 

Kuririn frowned in thought. "Yeah, that's what it sounded like." 

"Then we have a problem." 

Bulma slid open the window and chucked out her aircar's capsule. It expanded into the vehicle, hovering outside the lab. She clambered inside as Kuririn scrambled to the window. "Wait! Where are you going?" 

"To find Vegeta," Bulma said. "This has gone on long enough. We need answers, fast. Call me if anything comes up," and slamming the door shut she piloted the car into the sky. 

* * *

Short chapter, but I'm not sure how long the next will take, and I wanted to reassure folks that I am still around. As long as some reader remains! Thanks to Brios201 and Scythe Zero for reviewing; and Dreamwraith (glad I'm more or less keeping in character - hope you continue to enjoy this!), Jen-chan, and Sholio (Vegeta-Goku is my favorite interaction - does it show? ;) for keeping with it! 


	7. Smoke Signals

Vegeta was so soundly asleep that he didn't awaken until the intruder had actually entered the cave. Of course he hadn't yet taken his second step when the Saiyajin sprang up, his instincts superseding a waking reaction. Full alertness came only half a second before he put his fist through the potential attacker's chest. 

Or where his chest would have been, but Piccolo had wisely thrown himself to the side. Vegeta glared. "Don't sneak up on a Saiyajin, Namek." 

"I wasn't," Piccolo rumbled. "How's Son?" 

"Better. Worse. How the hell should I know? I'm no doctor." 

"You know more about this than any human could. How exactly are you ministering to him?" 

Piccolo's straightforward tone made the insinuation all the more insulting. Vegeta snarled, "I'm no nursemaid, to serve some third-class--" 

And then the Namek had slammed him against the stone. Had he been human the punch would have crushed his jaw. Piccolo usually kept himself under such tight control that Vegeta had almost forgotten his strength nearly equaled a Saiyajin's. A Super Saiyajin, and the Namek's ki was riding so high now that he cast a faint glow over the cave's shadows, a trembling haze visible to the naked eye. "What is the method, Vegeta? How do you save someone infected with this plague?" 

He sounded calm, but there was rage in that flickering aura, and more, fear. Piccolo was less apt at hiding his feelings than he believed himself to be. And Vegeta was more observant of emotions than most would give him credit for. There was little that could frighten a former god and devil in one, and only one obvious answer to his present state. Vegeta pushed himself off the supporting wall, spat the blood from the Namek's blow and wiped his mouth. "Gohan as well, then," he said. 

Piccolo's composure was forced, his ki still agitated, but his bass didn't waver. "Both of Son's children." 

"Hmm. I'd have thought I'd notice a couple cities being blasted off the face of the planet." 

"Goten only collapsed, without warning. And Gohan's violence was...swifter than what I witnessed of Son." There was something raw in Piccolo's dark eyes, naked feeling too intense to name. 

Dangerous, in a being so powerful, and this awareness made Vegeta speak quieter than he might have otherwise. "This world's dragonballs could resurrect him. Both of them." 

"If necessary." Piccolo blinked, as if belated realizing that thought might actually be sympathy. 

Vegeta wasted no time disabusing him of that notion. "It might be preferable to you weakening yourself. With Son's progeny down, this damn planet is fast running out of protectors. The dragonballs will be active in a season--" 

"Just tell me how to help him." 

The resigned sigh escaped before Vegeta could prevent it. He covered it by brusquely launching into an explanation. "It's not too difficult for a practiced warrior, but the level of control needed is...draining. Give too much and you only fuel the kaji; too little and the ki is not sufficiently replenished." 

"It requires close attention to the patient, then. And a fine awareness of his normal state," Piccolo deduced. Which was to be expected of someone so accomplished in ki manipulation, but his glance over Vegeta's shoulder at the unconscious Kakarotto was altogether too knowing. Vegeta was irritated without even grasping why. Of course he knew near every aspect of Kakarotto's life energy; half his life had been devoted to defeating that awesome power. It was only to be expected that he was sensitive to the most minute fluctuations. 

With no other recourse, he ignored the Namek, but before Vegeta could expound on the finer points of ki sharing, he was cut off by a most unlikely interruption. From outside the cave came a shout, "Piccolo! Vegeta! Son-kun? Piccolo, I know you're here!" 

Piccolo's eyes narrowed as Vegeta's widened, though both pairs reflected disbelief. "Sounds like--" 

"How could that--" 

Vegeta's ears registered the thrum of an aircar's engine, and then a silhouetted figure marched into the cave, fists on hips, blue hair blowing free of its bun. "So there you are." 

Vegeta couldn't speak immediately, and wasn't sure if it was from surprise, or anger, or simple unpreparedness. Usually he had more warning before engaging in this particular combat. "Wh-What are you doing here, woman?" 

His brain caught up with his mouth in that second, and offered the obvious conclusion. But Piccolo didn't back down from his glare, only shook his head. "I said nothing." 

"No need," Bulma said, and then reached up to Piccolo's collar. She wasn't especially fast, but she moved so deliberately that he made no immediate motion to evade her, and by then she had plucked something from the folds of his white cloak. Between her fingers the tiny tracking device glittered merrily. "Just because I can't trace a ki with my mind doesn't mean I'm totally helpless." 

"I never thought so," Vegeta muttered, as Piccolo eyed her with deep suspicion. Oblivious or uncaring of the Namek, she strode past him to Kakarotto, knelt beside him while Vegeta argued, "There's nothing you can do here, woman--" 

"And not a hell of a lot you can, either," his mate shot back. "I follow that you brought Son-kun out here for our safety, but he's not much a danger now." Gently she stroked the sweat-dampened bangs off Goku's forehead, measured his pulse against her watch. "He's worse off than either of the boys. Burning or freezing his ass off in the desert can't be good." 

"The climate is the least of his problems." 

"Yes, the poor nutrition and worse hygiene are probably more important. Not to mention the nursemaid," and she gave Vegeta her most charming smile, the one guaranteed to scratch at his nerves like nails on slate. It did little to hide the bags under her eyes, or the lines on her usually youthful face. And the smile fell too quickly. "We have to get him back, get him under real care. And you, too." 

"I can manage my own needs, as well as Kakarotto's." 

"Vegeta?" Bulma stood, faced him squarely. "Can it. There's no time for this. There's a more at stake here than your pride. Or even Son-kun's life." 

"Woman--" 

"What do you mean?" Piccolo said, the soul of measured reason, as if he hadn't been in a state to shatter rock mere minutes before. 

"You think I followed you out here for a lark? It wasn't because I don't trust you, Vegeta. But we need your help now. And your knowledge." 

She was scared. He could smell it on her, an unfamiliar scent, she who was so often freaked but so rarely truly frightened. "What?" he asked, folding his arms. 

"According to what Piccolo told me you said, the people who sent these probes are all dead. Did anyone else use them?" 

"That design of probe was unique to them, and they refused to sell the secrets of their craven success." 

"And you killed them all off?" 

"The Saiyajin and Frieza wiped out the Waizugaijin to their last colony and ship. Over forty years ago." 

"I'm afraid you--they--missed one." 

Piccolo leaned forward, until he was looming over the woman. "What do you mean?" he hissed. 

The bastard Namek _knew_ there was trouble, Vegeta realized. He had probably picked up from Dende that something was wrong. "Explain, woman," the prince snapped. 

To his irritation Bulma didn't even spare him a glare, much less a kick in the shins, as she was sometimes wont to do. "I've had my computer analyzing all the data I got from the probe before you blew it up. It would've been easier if you hadn't blown it up to begin with--" 

"Bulma...." 

"According to the analysis of the hull, the level of meteor scarring and molecular decay--that probe couldn't have been launched more than two years ago. Likely less than that." 

"Impossible!" 

"Wait, it gets better. In the middle of my scan, the probe released an energy burst. At the time I thought it was a reaction to the gamma waves, but I put my best machine to work crunching the output, and from what I've learned, I didn't set it off . It did that all on its own." 

"Did what?" Piccolo asked warily. 

Bulma rubbed her hand across her face, further smudging the last remnants of mascara. "A subspace signal. A faster than light transmission, specifically directed toward a particular quadrant, containing a string of code and, as far as I can tell, coordinates. For Earth. In other words, before it was destroyed, the probe phoned home. And I doubt it was calling in just to say what a wonderful time it was having. 

"Which is why, Vegeta, we need to get you and Son-kun healed up and back in action as soon as possible. Because unless I'm totally wrong--and you know I never am--we're going to have company soon, of the worse kind." 

* * *

Not dead yet, nor have I abandoned this. Anyone still reading? No? Good, then I can let this go! Or not...there will be more. Eventually. Meanwhile, thank you Dreamwraith (have I lost you yet? ^^), Brios201 (sorry this chapter isn't a good deal longer), and Ebi for leaving a review which reminded me this exists - wouldn't have gotten off my butt to finish this part without that push! (Also, concerning grammatical errors - I'd prefer not to have any, major or minor, so if you notice a mispelled word or a lost period, please do let me know!) 


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